Playing Scarlett O'Hara
by Lula Bo
Summary: Written for the BW&R LL ficathon, post season five finale. The L's talk, and don't talk, and life goes on.


Muchas smoochas, hugs, and innumerable thanks to the betas: sosmitten23, ciachick, and allthingsholy.

**Playing Scarlett O'Hara**

He sweeps the room with a practiced eye.

The diner is empty, though Kirk is still nursing the cup of coffee Luke poured for him first thing this morning and it is well past noon. The newspaper he has not opened remains folded at his elbow. This, of course, does not actually count in terms of customer population, as Kirk doesn't plan on paying for his coffee or ordering anything else. Luke will make more profit off the dancing pork chop still decorating his wall.

Lorelai has lined the countertop with twenty-two garishly decorated paper bags, each containing an obscene amount of sugar that she should personally apologize for when the mothers of Bradley's party-goers attempt to put their children to bed and fail dismally. She's humming to herself as she drops a handful of chocolate kisses into the last bag at the end of the counter. Smiling brightly at him, she reaches for yet another bag of corn-syrup covered death.

"I don't know how I let you talk me into this."

She looks up from the bag of Tootsie Roll Pops she's wrestling with. "Oh, I do." The plastic bag gives way in her hands, and the candy scatters across the countertop. "Can I get a refill, please?" she asks; she rises from the stool on which she's precariously perched to collect the lollipops within her immediate reach. As she bundles them into one hand, she twitches her hair over her shoulder with a slight inclination of her head.

Luke crosses his arms over his chest and regards her silently a moment. She bites back a smirk as she leans farther across the counter, her hair falling forward once again as she moves. When she catches his surreptitious downward glance, the smirk wins and she's grinning saucily at him, shaking her head and clucking her tongue.

"Luke, I know that they're magnificent, but you really should try and restrain yourself from ogling my breasts in public. It's just poor manners," she says.

He cocks an eyebrow at her. But for Kirk and the twenty-two bags of refined sugar between them, he'd catch her under her arms and pull her over the counter, sweep all those long, lovely curls away and take her right there in the middle of his diner.

"How badly do you want that coffee?"

"Luke, if you're threatening to withhold coffee just because I won't show you my ta-tas, all you have to do is _ask_," she chides, feigning annoyance. She braces her hands against the counter's edge and presses herself forward, the fabric of her shirt catching and stretching downward to expose another teasing inch of freckles and skin. "I'd be more than happy to provide such titillating service," she adds. She pulls back, dips her head demurely.

All he can do in reply is shake his head and turn his back on her, busy himself with the coffeemaker. He mutters to himself and he hears her choking on a laugh.

"You are so easy," she tells him.

Luke turns to answer her and sees Kirk scribbling frantically at something in his lap. He furrows his brow as he pours Lorelai a fresh cup of coffee and sidesteps the counter. He nods at the oddity sitting at his corner table. "What are you doing?"

Kirk looks up, his expression stricken. "Nothing."

"Kirk."

Lorelai unwraps a lollipop and sucks it into her mouth. "He's transcribing our conversation," she says.

"I am not!" Kirk cries, but his ears are red.

Luke scratches at his baseball hat. "Kirk. Why are you writing down what we're saying?"

"That's not what I'm doing."

Lorelai pulls the pop out of her mouth and the sound makes the hair on the back of Luke's neck stand up. "Kirk," he says.

"Patty says he's been talking about writing a book," Lorelai says. She hops onto a stool and works the lollipop between her teeth and the inside of her cheek, its stick bobbing as she speaks. "I think we should beat him up."

"I'll be going now," Kirk said, rising hastily.

Luke lets him get as far as the door before he throws the newspaper at the back of Kirk's head. "I see you in here with a writing instrument—anything, pen, pencil, chisel, a razor, so help me God—"

"However that sentence ends," Lorelai chimes in, "I'll help."

The door slams shut behind Kirk and he takes off at a run down Main Street. Luke lifts his hat and scratches at his scalp, sighing; Lorelai tips her head to the side in that way she has and smiles sympathetically, her lower lip poking forward in a half-pout. He crosses the room to stand beside her, puts his arm around her shoulder and she falls into him, wraps her arms around his middle and pushes her cheek into his shoulder. She smells of coffee and fake cherry flavoring, orange-scented shampoo and vanilla soap. The thought occurs to him that women really don't have to go out of their way to make themselves smell like all things edible, but the combined effect is occasionally overwhelming and in Lorelai's case always vaguely comforting. He squeezes her experimentally—she has been changeable as a rainy day these past months, soft in some moments and in others harsh and slanting sideways. Today, this moment, the slight tightening of his arm around her produces a barely perceptible sigh, and he knows that Serious Discussion is not in the forecast but Gentle Ribbing and Teasing Banter are highly likely—partly cloudy, chance of showers, nothing too stormy.

"Luke?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for doing this." When he tries to shrug this off, tries to tell her it's nothing, she gets to her feet and puts her arms around him in an embrace so fierce he thinks his heart might be beating in her chest and hers in his. "It's incredibly sweet of you. I mean it." She tucks herself into the crook of her neck and her lips buzz against his skin as she continues. "You didn't have to, and you're making a little kid very happy. Doing this for Bradley—"

"I'm not doing it for Bradley."

Lorelai sniffles, and he pretends not to notice the sudden dampness on his neck.

She's been planning this party for a week, off and on between projects at the inn, after a previous week of trying to convince Luke that after a lifetime of avoiding such things, he was secretly dying to hold a child's birthday party in his diner.

When Bradley's mother had called her and asked her to plan the boy's birthday party and if Lorelai could, please, please, please arrange to have it at Luke's, since her son had taken to Luke quite a bit during the production of _Fiddler on the Roof_, Lorelai told her absolutely, no problem. Then she told Luke his place of business would be hosting twenty ten-year-olds with noise-makers and sugar highs. And then Luke had told her absolutely no freaking way.

She'd pouted. She'd flipped her hair. She'd sashayed around his apartment in an open flannel shirt and a pair of plaid-patterned panties. She'd threatened to hit him with the double-whammy of hair flip and black dress. On the third day in a row that she went without underwear and made sure he knew it, he told her it was nothing short of bizarre how committed she was to this kid's party.

Then she'd brought Bradley in. She stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders, and told him not to be shy. And Bradley had looked up at Luke, barely clearing the top of the counter, and drew a great, shuddery breath. He regarded Luke wordlessly as he jammed his inhaler in his mouth and took two long hits of medication.

And Luke had folded like a poker player with a bad hand.

"How are you gonna say no to a kid who's got a face that's half big cow eyes and half attached to an asthma inhaler?" he'd demanded of Lorelai.

"You can't," she'd said solemnly.

He'd studied her a moment as they lay in bed, she wrapped in the sheet and drowsy-eyed, her cheeks flushed. "You manipulated me."

Her smile was chagrined. "I know. I'm sorry, if that helps at all."

"Why are you so set on this?" he wanted to know.

"Because I think if you'll do it, you'll have fun," she said. "And because there's a little kid really, really hoping you'll say yes. I also think that you're dying to do this way deep down and haven't figured it out yet."

"Really."

"Oh, yes. You're lucky you have me around, Luke, to teach you these things and take care of you. Bradley is your Cindy Lou Who, and he's going to bust that heart that's two sizes two small," she'd said.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose. Lorelai ran her palm down his arm, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. He angled to look at her. "I know a couple of girls who took care of that a long time ago."

Lorelai had only stared at him a moment, a tremulous expression on her face. "Do people know about you, Luke? That under all that flannel there's a giant schmoop just dying to give the world a hug and a Coke?"

Luke had ignored this, passing a hand over his eyes and sighing in mock resignation. "Fine, use the diner, whatever. But all I'm gonna do is man the kitchen—if you expect me to participate in some game of Pin the Tail on the Idiot, or anything that resembles Simon Says or Mother May I or Red Rover, you're in for some serious disappointment."

She snorted in laughter. "Luke, when exactly do you think we're having this party? If we were planning to throw Bradley a birthday bash circa 1953, maybe that would be a concern for you, but I'm pretty sure Bradley is a man of the new millennium. Although, I am intrigued by the whole Pin the Tail on the Idiot idea." She paused. "I don't know—I'd have to hire Kirk for that and his going rates have gotten really high recently."

"No games."

"Right," she said.

"I mean it."

"Okay."

"And no games means none at all," he'd added.

"Wait, let me write that down," she said, grabbing for the pad of paper on Luke's bedside table. "Okay, so say that again? 'No games means none at all.' Got it. Won't forget that little gem now."

He rolled his eyes. "Do you have any idea how tiring you are?"

She had smirked and leaned close, spoke with her lips just touching his. "Oh, honey, I haven't even started yet."

That was over a week ago, and now Luke holds her in the empty diner as she struggles against the tears he feels hot on his neck; her lashes flutter against his skin and the feeling puts a lump in the base of his throat. She pulls away from his embrace, hides behind her hair as she wipes at her eyes. Luke allows her a few moments of privacy to regain her composure, to sniffle herself back to better spirits in her coffee cup. He scrubs the countertop with a rag, waits. When she straightens her shoulders and shakes her hair, she's smiling again, albeit somewhat ruefully. She gestures expansively with one arm.

"I'll get rid of these before I go," she tells him.

"I'm hoping that means you'll do that by moving them elsewhere and not eating them all," he replies, and she rewards him with an awkward wink.

"I make no promises," she says, but she's already folding the tops of the paper bags over carefully and cradling them in her arms to keep them from wrinkling. "Can I leave these upstairs?"

"Does my answer really matter?"

She pauses at the threshold, at the bottom of the stairs, and props her chin on her shoulder to study him a moment. "Do you know how I love you?" she asks, her voice low.

Something seizes behind his ribcage. "Yeah, I do." And though there's no one to cover the counter in case someone comes in, he places the remaining goody bags onto plates and carries them on his forearms as he's been doing with platters of burgers and fries for more years than he cares to count.

Jess's bed is already heaped high with party favors—bags of limp balloons and rolls of colored crepe paper and numerous strange hats—and Lorelai is creating a fence around it with the paper bags full of candy. She stands with her hands on her hips as Luke puts the plates down.

"This is going to be one of my better events," she tells him. "At least in the realm of kiddie-dom." She sighs happily. "I love kids' parties. Even though someone's always throwing up or crying or kicking a grown up in the knees…" She trails off, her expression puzzled. "I have no idea why I like them. It's probably because of all those parties before we had any money and I had to learn how to make fun out of absolutely nothing for Rory." She stops. The name is clearly cold water in her face. "Well, whatever. It'll be fun. I have to get back to work."

She lays a hand to his cheek as she moves to kiss him, and he decides that he's not going to let her go with a perfunctory kind of goodbye. She makes a noise of surprise in the back of her throat and stumbles a bit, but she grips the back of his arms a little too tightly and leans into him, opens her mouth to him and closes her eyes. She tastes of chocolate and cherries.

He rubs the small of her back as she pulls reluctantly away. "Okay?" he asks.

She kisses the tip of his nose. "Okay." For a beat she rests her forehead against his and her lashes flutter against his skin. "Thanks."

"I'll bring some dinner by—" he begins, but she shakes her head.

"No, I'll come here. It's just easier, everything's already here. I'll see you in a few hours," she says.

It's been weeks since he's been in her house for more than a few moments at a time—weeks, in fact, since _she's _been in her house for more than a few moments at a time. She's been a nightly guest at his place all summer, not once sleeping in her own bed either with him or alone. It's not as though Luke feels the need to complain that every one of her free moments is spent with him; he's rather thankful she's letting him make up for the time lost between the disastrous vow renewal and the moment he stepped over her threshold and back into this relationship. But there's a heightened awareness that sits between them at night in moments of silence, a knowing that's almost tangible: though she's with him, she's Not At Home. He hasn't asked; she flinches visibly at every mention of her house. So he pretends to forget that she has a home of her own, that he's come to view his apartment as some kind of limbo where the air is thick with things unsaid.

Luke doesn't see her come in mid-way through the dinner rush when he's up to his elbows in meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Caesar informs him that his girlfriend's come through the diner carrying two enormous grocery bags. As he jogs up the stairs, Luke wonders if his fire extinguisher is still any good up there. But Lorelai, to his great relief, is not cooking—he's not entirely sure what she's doing, other than sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed in a pair of Wonder Woman underwear and a white tank top, her hair in two pigtails on either side of her head and her glasses slightly askew on her face. She looks up at him, tossing the remote control aside, and smiles.

"Hey," she says, and she crawls towards him to kneel at the edge of the bed. "Guess what you and I are having for dinner?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

She claps her hands and rubs her palms together. "The entire array of frozen snack foods that Doose's Market has to offer. Jalapeno poppers, mozzarella sticks—anything that you can order at TGI Friday's for an appetizer is now sitting in your freezer, awaiting seven to ten minutes on a baking sheet in the oven—crappy food nirvana, Luke."

He gets a beer. "Do you know what kind of preservatives are in that shit?" he asks.

Lorelai sits back on her heels. "Well, no one says you have to eat it," she says. "I'm just very much in the mood for grease." She rubs her hands along her thighs and looks dolefully back at the television set.

It's on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he's sorry she's lost her playmate but it's going to take more than Rory moving into the Gilmore pool house for him to eat anything first deep fried and then frozen. He chugs from the bottle of beer in his hand instead, sighs. She falls back on the bed and rolls onto her stomach, kicking her feet in the air; he opens the freezer and begins to rip into the boxes of fatty, ready-made heart attacks, and Lorelai begins to narrate the evening news. She twirls her hair around her index finger, turns, startled at the sound of frozen mozzarella sticks hitting a cookie sheet.

"I can do that," she says. "You don't have to."

"No," he tells her, "but I'm gonna."

"Why?"

Because she's stuck in this in-between place, caught, and she's standing alone without cover, and this is all he can do.

"Because."

"Ah," she says. "Hey. Question."

"Shoot."

"Do you want me to buy paper plates and plastic utensils for Bradley's party, or are you going to use stuff from Luke's?"

He snorts. "Do you know how many trees they have to kill to get one package of paper plates?"

Lorelai rolls off the bed and pads into the kitchen, stands on her tiptoes beside him and wraps her arms around him. "Do I have to worry that one of these days you're going to leave me and go live in a tree like Henry Whatsisname Thoreau?" she returns.

Luke catches her wrist in his hand and kisses the heel of her palm, presses his cheek into her hand. "Henry David Thoreau, and he didn't live in a tree—he lived in a shack and made his mother do his laundry while he evaded his taxes. I'm not going anywhere." He fails miserably at keeping his voice light.

She doesn't. "Good to know. You gonna give me a beer, or do I have to beg?"

He leaves her with the mountain of artery-clogging junk she's picking at before it's even cooled enough to eat. She's camped out on the bed with a rerun of _Friends_ and a bottle of beer. "Come back with pie!" she calls.

After the diner is closed and swept and the counters cleaned, Luke plates the last piece of cherry pie and slowly heads up the stairs. The apartment is dark, lit only by the flickering light of the television. He kicks off his shoes and steps quietly in the direction of his bed. Lorelai has burrowed under the sheets, barricaded herself behind a pile of pillows. She peeks over the top of her small fortress at him, blinks sleepily.

"I have pie," he tells her.

She groans and sinks beneath the mountain of bedclothes. "Oh, God, take it away," she whines. "Don't even say it."

So he leaves it on the shelf beside the stereo and sits lightly on the bed beside her, searches her out amongst the pillows. Her forehead is damp and cool beneath his palm, her hair beginning to frizz in the humidity of the apartment. "You feeling okay?"

She shakes her head vigorously and groans again. "My belly's about to burst," she says. "I hate myself."

Luke rises and strips, yanks his flannel and tee shirt over his head together in one swift movement, unbuckles his belt and shoves his jeans over his hips, kicks his clothes aside as he pulls back the covers and joins her. Lorelai releases the pillows and shoves them at him; he stacks them behind him and sits with his back to the headboard, reaches for her. Lorelai curls up against his side, her knees tucked to her chest, and buries her face in his stomach.

"I hate myself," she says again.

"Don't say that," he tells her. He slips his arm around her and searches out her abdomen with his hand, begins to rub circles against her stomach beneath her tee shirt. Her skin here is hot, flushed, beneath his palm. "You just ate too much."

She groans again. "Don't—I don't even want to think about it." And she whimpers as he strokes her skin with his thumb, circles her navel with the tips of his fingers, but she begins to stretch from the fetal position to give him better access. Her breath is hot on his side. "Just keep doing that, though."

"Feels good?"

"Feels better," she replies. She plays with the hem of his boxers beneath the sheet. "Luke?"

"Hmm?"

"The summer's almost over."

"It is."

She's silent a long moment, and the apartment echoes with the sound of canned laughter and her quiet breathing. "School's about to start up again." He doesn't reply, waits. "I hate August." She pauses once more. "What do you think she'll do when she realizes it's after Labor Day and for the first time in her life she's not going back to class?"

His throat tightens. "Panic, probably."

Her laugh is humorless. "I hope so."

"Lorelai—"

She sits up, scoots her rear back on the mattress and lays her head on his shoulder. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I know, but—"

"Forget I brought it up," she tells him. "Chalk it up to bad belly rumblings. I don't want to talk—I just—I want to sit here and not talk and sit with you in the dark and have you rub my belly and make me feel better."

He kisses her forehead, and as he presses his cheek to her hair, he's grateful for the darkness, that she can't see his face, the sadness that sits heavy on his brow. "That's why I'm here." It's all he can think to say.

Sometime later, she presses the power button on the TV remote and the room falls into utter darkness. Luke blinks against the sudden pitch black, and without thinking stills his hand on Lorelai's abdomen, his fingers splayed wide beneath her breasts. He hears her exhale softly, slowly, into the crook of his neck, and her hand is on his, guiding him down her torso.

"Lorelai—" He tries, again.

She shushes him and continues to press his hand lower. "Please."

So he makes love to her in the darkness of his apartment, kisses her until she turns her head and gasps, sighs his name against the silence, her voice low and throaty as she throws her head back, bites her lip. He knows without seeing that her eyes are tightly shut, and she's arching into him, her movements instinctive and desperate as she teases her nails across his back, as she grips his neck with one hand and tugs at his hair. She's pleading with him again, choking on need, and Luke ceases to nip and kiss and tongue that place behind her ear that has always made her laugh and shiver when he seeks it beneath the tumble of her dark curls. His hands once again travel lower, the inside of her thigh burning beneath his palm, the back of her knee slick with sweat.

"_Please."_

So he buries himself inside her, and she's wrapping herself around him, clinging to him with shaking limbs, and in the dark silence of his apartment, her erratic breathing becomes almost painful to hear, and it's all Luke can do not to pull away, to lay his hand to her cheek and tell her to stop, to let herself go. He kisses her instead, breathes into her as he moves as though he can soothe her from the inside out and suddenly she's coming, twisting in his arms and crying, sobbing as she stills beneath him.

Luke stops, frames her face with his hands, and she's shaking her head as she cries, won't open her eyes. "Please, don't," she says. "Don't—I'm sorry, I'm just—don't stop," she says, and she tightens her legs around his waist and forces him to move, covers her mouth with his, her kisses salty and slow. She begins to stroke his back, to tug at his ear with her teeth, to scratch at his scalp and ass and shoulders, and she's saying his name again when he begins to lose himself. "It's you and me," she tells him, her tone gentle. "Please, Luke," she says again, and he presses his lips to her neck. She tells him she loves him, and he's gone.

"So," she says, after they've begun to breathe normally again and rearranged themselves on the bed, Luke on his back, Lorelai in the curve of his arm, "you ever move a woman to tears before by sheer sexual prowess?" She's running one fingertip along his chest, tracing the place she thinks his heart is. He takes her hand in his and kisses each fingertip.

"Nope."

She gently tweaks his lower lip. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean—I'm just—do you think I'm crazy?"

He chuckles. "I thought that a long time ago," he tells her. "But not because of that. It's okay, you know—I'm only worried about you."

Lorelai rubs her foot along his calf as she considers this. "There's just a lot going on right now. It's not you."

He doesn't contradict her aloud, though he knows there's reason to. "Talk to me, Lorelai."

"I can't," she says, her voice thick. "Please, not right now. I just—I can't."

"When?"

"What, you want a timeline?"

Luke shrugs. "You can't keep doing this to yourself forever, Lorelai."

She rolls away from him. "I know that. Fester and rot and all that."

"What?"

"Watch a movie, Luke."

He puts an arm around her tentatively. She doesn't smack him away, so he draws her back flush against his chest and rests his chin on the top of her head. "I'm worried about you," he says again.

Her sigh rocks her whole body. "I know. Tomorrow, okay?"

"Tomorrow."

"After the party," she says. "I just need to get through the party."

"Okay," he says, kisses her shoulder. "Tomorrow."

But he's doubtful—there've been countless tomorrows this summer where she hasn't followed through, won't talk to him, when he hasn't pressed for more than the bare minimum of _I'm tired-it's-not-you-don't-worry-where's-my-coffee._ Tomorrow makes it so much easier to pretend there was no today, for both of them.

They sleep late, though it's Saturday; the party is this afternoon and Caesar has agreed to open in exchange for not working the party itself. When Luke finally opens his eyes, blinks against the hard light coming in under the curtains, it's past nine, and Lorelai is still dozing in his arms. The end of her nose is slightly red and the hollows under her eyes seem bruised against the pallor of her cheeks. But she's warm and solid, breathing easy as she sleeps. He kisses her temple and cups her elbow in his hand. She smiles, pushes back at him.

"Hey," she murmurs. "I'm sleeping here."

"How's the stomach?"

She opens her eyes. "I think it's forgotten all about the caloric orgy of last night." She turns her head and kisses his chin. "Thanks for taking care of me."

"And how's everything else?" he asks.

Lorelai stiffens at this, so briefly Luke wonders if it's only his imagination. She rolls onto her other side to face him, cups his face in her hands and kisses him at length, soft and slow and with intent. "I'm very sorry I was all girl, interrupted last night."

"You weren't."

"I was," she says. "Besides, you don't even know what that means."

He kisses her wrist. "Isn't that the movie where that chick is in love with her brother?"

Lorelai bursts out laughing, her face blossoming in a smile, and she pushes into his shoulder as she laughs, and something warm suffuses through Luke's body that she's shaking with mirth this morning and nothing else. "No," she finally chokes out, "it's not. But it's the movie that Angelina Jolie won the Oscar for, and she said she was so in love with her brother in her speech. I can't even believe you'd know that."

"I hear things," he says.

She kisses him again, speaks with her lips pressed to his. "Oh, Luke, I love you." She pushes him onto his back and straddles him, braces herself with her hands on his shoulders as she leans into him, kisses him harder, now, more deeply. "Wanna see?" she asks, breathless.

And so he watches her smiling as they make love despite the mid-morning rush evident by the sounds of the diner below them—she's playful, teasing, bossy even, and her hands are everywhere, feather-light as she touches him, touches herself, and she's kissing him, smothering him with endless, searing kisses that will leave his lips swollen, hers chapped and raw from the scrape of his stubble. And though this is the sunniest he's seen her in weeks, his chest aches for her as she rolls onto her back, spent and sighing happily. There is something brittle, something fragile about this performance that belies the cheerful disposition she's sporting for his sake.

She wears his boxers with her tank top, having run out of clean underwear, and she sits at his kitchen table drinking coffee after they finally leave the bed. He's making eggs, whistling.

"I had a really good dream last night," she tells him.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mm. I don't remember it, but it was really good. It made me think things are going to get better," she says.

Luke puts a plate on the table in front of her, kisses her, and sits down. "What things?"

She shrugs, speaks dismissively. "Things. Various and sundry things." She continues around a mouthful of eggs and toast. "Listen, I have to go home and shower and change and then swing by Sookie's for the cake, but I'll be back here by noon to finish setting up—you won't have to do anything but cook, I swear." She smiles brightly at him. "I'll only ask you to make one appearance for the whole cake thing, but then you can be the Jeremiah Johnson recluse guy all you want."

He thumbs a spot of butter from the corner of her mouth. "Why don't I take you out tonight?"

"Why don't you?"

Lorelai finishes her breakfast quickly and leaves with one of Luke's flannels tied around her waist, over the boxers, and he's just so relieved to see her being thoroughly _Lorelai_ without a fine thread of worry or hurt or sadness laced too tightly around her waist that he doesn't protest her walking through town in his underwear.

The next time he sees her, she's standing on one of the tables in the diner, hanging a piñata from the ceiling. She hasn't seen him yet, so he takes the moment and watches her. She's in dark jeans and a long-sleeved blue tee shirt, a blue tweed newsboy's cap on her head and her hair twisted into a low knot at the nape of her neck. Luke wonders if she knows, if she has any idea, how strong she is, how much she can hold in those arms of hers, how much she can bear up on those long legs. The heels she's wearing are liable to make her break her neck if she's on that table much longer, though, so he steps around the counter and stands beside her, looking up.

"You want me to do that?" he asks.

She drops her arms and holds the piñata out to him. It's in the shape of a giant Dr. Seuss _Cat in the Hat_ top hat. "You're an angel," she tells him.

"Why a hat?"

She smirks as she puts her hand on his shoulder and he helps her down. "Every party's gotta have a theme, Luke. Bradley's theme is hats—that way, you're participating without having to do anything differently," she tells him. She's clearly pleased with herself.

He hides as best he can once the party begins; it's easy, seeing as he has twenty different orders to make, and hard, too, because Lorelai is in her element and he'd like nothing better than to watch her oversee a horde of bouncy ten-year-olds as they decorate paper hats with glitter he'll be scraping off the floor for months to come. He can hear her, even back in the kitchen, exclaiming over artwork that he's sure is incomprehensible and messy at best; he can hear her settling an argument between Damon of the lesbian mommies and a little girl named Pamie who wants the pink glitter pen that Damon won't give her. He steps out of the kitchen when Lorelai declares it's time to smack the living daylights out of the piñata.

Bradley, as the birthday boy, gets first whack, and he shoves his inhaler in his mouth as Lorelai blindfolds him and turns him quickly several times in a circle. Luke can't help but chuckle as the boy swings blindly at the air in front of him and smacks a chair with such force that he knocks himself off his feet. Child after child faces off with the hat as it swings wildly from the ceiling and Lorelai shouts words of encouragement. She's in the middle of blindfolding Pamie when the bell over the door rings and Emily steps into the diner.

Luke's mouth goes dry, and he immediately steps forward. Lorelai finishes tying Pamie's blindfold and puts her hands on her hips. She glances at her mother for the briefest of seconds, her expression inscrutable. She indicates for Luke to take her place with a tilt of her head, and holds Pamie by the shoulders until Luke is beside her.

"Give her a good turn, babe," she says. To his questioning look, she merely shakes her head. "I'll be right back."

It's hard not to stare as Lorelai greets her mother, but Pamie proves to be lethal with the piñata stick and Luke finds that he can't withdraw his attention from the tiny, blond-ringleted girl enthusiastically brandishing her weapon before her.

"What on earth is going on here?" Luke hears Emily ask, more annoyed by the scene before her than confused.

"It's a party, Mom. You need a hat."

"I'm not staying."

"It doesn't matter," Lorelai says; Pamie makes resounding contact with the piñata and Lorelai gives her a hooting cheer. "I can't talk to you outside because I'm busy here, but you can't be in here without a hat. Here."

Luke takes a moment to hazard a glance away from Pamie, sees Lorelai hand her mother a garish, plastic pink tiara.

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

Pamie waves her baton and gives a blood-curdling battle call. Emily holds the tiara just above her hair as she continues.

"Rory has asked me to get some of her books for her."

"Rory can come and get her books herself," Lorelai replies evenly.

"Lorelai, if you'd just give me the key—"

"Rory didn't give you hers?"

"Don't be tiresome, Lorelai."

"Sorry, Mom. You're on your own," she says. "One more spin, Luke, and then it's Damon's turn."

Emily surveys the scene in the diner, and Luke can practically hear her sneering as he spins Pamie a little too forcefully. She wobbles, hangs on Luke's arm.

"Come on, Pam," Lorelai calls. "Smack that hat!"

"Who are these children?" Emily asks her.

"Didn't I tell you, Mom? They're mine. I've been pretty busy lately."

Luke dodges Pamie's swing. "Really, Lorelai," Emily exhales. "Must you be so crass?"

"Crass, tiresome—is there anything else you'd like to add to that list, Mom?" Her anger gets the better of her, and her tone is sharp, biting. Luke turns his head, and in the space of the breath he's looked away to see the two Gilmore women facing off just inside the door, Pamie manages to strike herself in the face.

The piñata-battering stick falls with a clatter and Luke has the small girl in his arms in the instant before she starts bawling. Lorelai is at his side, easing the blindfold over Pamie's forehead, clucking sympathetically. "Oh, honey, it's just a scratch," she coos. "No worries, we'll get you patched up in no time."

Luke carries Pamie to the counter and sets her down, takes a better look at the cut welling up with blood on her cheek. "It's not gonna need stitches," he tells her, smoothing her hair. He looks at Lorelai, already behind the counter searching for the First Aid kit. "The other kids?" he asks.

She points. "Bradley's mom has it covered. You want me to do it?"

He shakes his head and opens the kit, unwraps a pack of cotton balls and opens the hydrogen peroxide. "I got it. Do what you have to do."

"Is the little girl all right?"

Lorelai almost audibly rolls her eyes. "Yes, Mom, she's going to be fine. Is there anything else?"

"You're really not going to let me into your house."

"Mom, if Rory wants something from home, she can come home and get it," Lorelai tells her. "I don't have anything else to say to you."

"You know Christopher's been joining us for Friday night dinner all summer," Emily says, suddenly.

Luke looks up from bandaging Pamie's cut; Lorelai's color is rising, and she crosses her arms over her chest, a sure sign that she's close to exploding. Emily beside her looks somewhat comical, the plastic tiara resting precariously on her teased up hair. "Why on earth would you bring that up?" Lorelai demands. "And why on earth should I care?"

"He's making an effort to be there for Rory," Emily replies.

"Rory has made it more than clear that she doesn't need me to be there for her, Mother," Lorelai says sharply. "And as I have no intention of falling into your Stepfordian plan for my future, you can stop trying to talk Christopher up to me—I want nothing to do with him for pretty much ever." She pauses. "You should leave. This is a little kid's party, and I don't want there to be a scene."

"I have no intention of making a scene," Emily snaps.

"No, but if you don't go right now, Mom, I'm going to make one, and I'd really rather not," Lorelai says.

Emily is silent a moment. "I really can't believe that this is—is this really what you want for the rest of your life, Lorelai? Regardless of what your father or I would wish for you, this can't really be what you'd choose."

Lorelai looks over her shoulder. Luke presses the band aid softly to Pamie's cheek, and the child is already absorbed in Bradley's second battle with the piñata. Luke lifts her off the counter and sets her on her feet, looking over her head at Lorelai. She smiles at him, her eyes shining. He pushes Pamie in the direction of the other children watching the on-going piñata abuse, shrugs at Lorelai.

"I have chosen it, Mom," Lorelai says quietly. "Please leave. I'm asking you nicely. And in the future, if Rory needs something from home, she can call me. She can call me whenever she wants. I'd love to see her, but in the meantime, she knows I'm here if she needs me."

The resignation in her voice closes Luke's throat and he feels his eyes prick painfully for her. She's hugging herself, rocking on her feet and holding her mother's gaze, her blue eyes a steely grey façade of resolve.

"Go, Mom. And give me back the tiara."

Emily picks the tiara from her hair and turns to go. Luke strides across the diner just as the piñata breaks, and he closes his hand over Lorelai's as the children erupt in gleeful laughter and swarm to the candy like bees to honey. They watch a moment, communing silently together with their hands clasped tightly, until Emily clears her throat to alert them to her continued presence.

Luke looks at her askance and Lorelai slips her free hand into the crook of Luke's elbow. Emily passes her eyes over them and almost imperceptibly shakes her head.

"If you really loved her, you'd talk some sense into her, you know," Emily tells him.

Luke presses Lorelai's hand gently. "I love her enough to let her make her own decisions," he replies. "I love her enough to stick around, too, if I ever thought she'd made the wrong one. I love her," he says simply, "but I don't wanna run her life."

Lorelai tilts her face to him and her eyes are full; at this moment, he knows she believes she's going to be fine. He's never doubted it, himself, because she's Lorelai and getting through is what she does. But there have been moments this summer when he's wondered how much longer she'll bear up in silence before she stares the problem down—how much longer she'll keep the problem cupped in her hand, hidden from light—how much longer she'll tell herself she's not alone—how much longer she'll believe that's true before the doubt strangles what she's sure she knows. She radiates a certainty now that overwhelms him.

The door shuts and neither of them break their gaze. "I gotta tell you, if there weren't twenty ten-year-olds three feet away from us, I'd already have you naked by now," she tells him.

"I'm taking you out tonight," he tells her.

"I'm looking forward to it."

She doesn't let him help her clean the diner, so he caves and takes her to one of those restaurants where the waiters dress like yahoos and sing "Happy Birthday" to poor, unsuspecting souls who just want a really fat burger, and she drinks a giant blue margarita that turns her tongue a color no tongue should ever be. She tells him every ridiculous story she can remember from the last few months, every inane thing she can think of that has happened that she's forgotten at the end of the day. And though the lettuce in his salad is a little limp and they've overcooked his fish on top of overcharging him, it's worth it to see her rub her hands together over the dessert menu and order something drowning in chocolate sauce as though this is the most important thing she's ever done.

After dinner, she asks him to drive her home. For the first time all summer, she tells him she needs to go home.

"I'm tired of playing Scarlett O'Hara," she tells him.

She kisses him on her porch at the front door, pulls him into the house by the front of his shirt. There's laundry all over her bed and her bedroom floor, and she's unapologetic as she tosses things aside and wonders what's clean and what's not. She kneels on the bed, brings his hands to her hips.

"I'm sorry I've been so—Joan Crawford," she says. "I know it's been a long summer."

Luke averts his eyes, slips his thumbs under the hem of her shirt. "Part of that's my fault."

"Luke—"

He cups her cheek, kisses her hard. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have anything to apologize for." She pauses. "That's not entirely true, but I figure after… everything, pretty much ever, we're even."

"All right," he says, "lay down."

And she's grinning wickedly, falling back on the bed and pulling him with her, laughing. Luke wrangles them both into a more comfortable position, puts his arm around her and draws her against his chest. "I thought this was going to be a little more interactive," she tells him.

"I think we need to talk first."

She's silent a long moment. "There's nothing you can say about Rory, Luke—she's going to do whatever it is she's going to do, and I just have to be patient. She came around last year, she'll come around again. I miss her, a lot, and I hate that she's not talking to me, I hate feeling like I failed her and I really, really hate that I'm so disappointed, and I hate even _more_ that she's turning to my parents instead of me, but you can't change that and I can't change that… There isn't anything else you can say. I know you're on my side, and that's—that's enough."

"I'm not talking about Rory," he tells her. "I'm talking about the other thing."

"Oh."

He strokes her hair, stares at her ceiling and the strange, bubbly paint, searching as though it will offer him the right words. After all this time, they're still elusive—even now, knowing what he needs to say, what he wants to say, he's still unsure of _how. _"I should have answered."

"I know why you didn't."

The conversation they'd had that night, the night Rory moved into the pool house and Lorelai began to retreat into silence and solitary contemplations, had gone in circles long enough to leave them both dizzy and exhausted. She'd asked him to marry her; he'd evaded an answer. He told her she was asking because of Rory, because she was upset, and she'd agreed; she'd said she loved him, no matter why she was asking, that she this was what she wanted. He'd said they'd talk when her head was clear, that this wasn't the time to make such decisions, that she'd wish it had gone differently when everything else had settled; she'd said it wouldn't make a difference.

Luke shakes his head. "It doesn't matter why I didn't."

She sits up, pushes her hair off her neck, and she's got that smile on her face, that pouting look of sympathy from the day before that's always sent heat singing through his body from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes. "I get it, Luke. It's okay."

"Stop saying that," he says, and he doesn't mean to be so harsh; she sits back, wounded, and he covers his face with his hands. "It's not okay. I suck."

"You do not suck," she says gently. "I just don't see the need to keep punishing yourself for—for putting it off. You were right."

"Was I?" he asks, his voice cracking. He sits up, takes her hands in his, and holds them tight against his heart. "Have I told you I love you?"

This time it is Lorelai who averts her eyes. "Not… directly. But I know. I know you do."

"That's not good enough."

"So tell me," she says. She sounds slightly exasperated, and it makes him want to laugh. "For Pete's sake, Luke, this might just be the most ridiculous conversation we've ever had."

He closes his eyes, leans forward, and kisses her cheek. "I should have said it before."

The first time she told him she loves him, when he was telling her she was upset and she didn't really know what she was doing in asking him to marry her, she'd said it as though it were some sort of elemental truth—the earth revolves around the sun, spring is followed by summer, rain helps things grow, and she loves him.

"Why didn't you, then?" she asks, dipping her head, challenging him to look her in the eye.

"I don't know," he says. It gives him a hollow feeling, not to have said it, not to know why he's withheld. He looks her in the eye, and she's telegraphing with her eyes and the set of her mouth that he's a lunatic and emotionally stunted and it's really rather amusing to her. "I don't know."

"And?"

"And what?"

She rolls her eyes. "And what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to stop playing Scarlett O'Hara, I guess," he says. She bursts out laughing, throws her arms around him and hugs him. "What?"

"I just love that you said that," she laughs.

Luke takes her by the shoulders and holds her at arms length. "Hey, I'm trying to be serious here."

She fails to compose herself, her eyes spilling over with tears of laughter and relief. "I appreciate that." She bites her lip, shakes her head, unable to keep herself from giggling.

So he does the only thing that's ever worked at completely shutting her up—he kisses her, easing her onto her back on the bed, kisses her and tangles his hand her hair and slips his hand beneath her shirt, flattens his palm against the small of her back, and when he pulls away, she's breathless and caught and her eyes are shining as she looks up at him. "You're impossible," he tells her, "but God help me, I love you anyway."

"'Bout damned time, Scarlett," she teases, her voice quaking, and pulls him in for another kiss. "What about the other thing?"

Her smile breaks something in him. "You still want to?"

"Oh, hell yes."

And he's smiling, too, as he kisses her, speaks with his mouth against hers and his eyes open. "Good."

"That's a yes?" she asks, pushing him back. She cocks an eyebrow at him. "I need a confirmation here, sir."

"That's a dear, God, yes." He kisses her eyes, her cheeks, her chin, her nose, her bottom lip. "Things'll work out," he tells her.

Lorelai runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time in weeks, her expression isn't distant, isn't hiding the doubt that he's right—she is tremulous and scared and she's beautiful. "I hope so. Right now, I think so." She sighs. "You're really gonna marry me?"

"I really am."

She slides her hands beneath his shirt and scratches at his chest. "Good. Everything else, it's going to work out."

"This is what I said."

And she's kissing him again, and her hands are on him, hot and teasing, and she's kissing him with a headiness that's more intoxicating than the giant blue margarita he can still taste on her tongue. "Luke," she says, tugs tugging at his lower lip, "things are still all a mess."

"You want to keep talking?"

"Tomorrow."

"You sure?"

"So says Scarlett," she tells him. "I know I always say tomorrow—"

"You do."

"—but I mean it," she says. "Tomorrow. There's a lot of stuff—"

He kisses her. "We'll figure it out."

"We will."

"Tomorrow."

She grins, rolls him onto his back, and shakes her hair. She smiles down at him. "Love you," she says.

"I love you back."

"And tomorrow—"

"Tomorrow will take care of itself," he says, and this makes her giggle.

She falls forward and brushes her lips against his. "Tomorrow is another day."

Writing for: jadeokelani  
Celebration you want to see: A child's birthday (who the child is, up to you).  
Two secondary items you want to see: Unfounded insecurities, Emily wearing a tiara  
One other character you'd like to see, if any: Christopher


End file.
